


If Words Did Ever Fail

by Twolittlesparrows



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Good Omens AU, M/M, Magical Realism, Male Aziraphale (Good Omens), Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Poetry, Romance, Slow Burn, They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28337958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twolittlesparrows/pseuds/Twolittlesparrows
Summary: A human AUThe bookshop was alive. It pulsed with power. And it was in danger. Its caretaker, a man of indeterminate age, Aziraphale (local bookseller and stichomance), gave the impression of good-natured annoyance. He kept irregular hours. When no other option presented itself and he was forced to open the shop, he was quick to get the whole sordid business over with. He guarded his collection like a dragon in a selbu-rose sweater.When he meets Crowley, a person of indeterminate gender (and local mischief maker, scooter gang member and muso), the pair must team up in order to save the bookshop.But there are forces beyond their understanding, and they're not the only ones interested in the bookshops powers...--Stichomancy: divination by randomly selecting lines or passages from booksSome poetry in this will be my own, others from authors - those that are not mine shall be referenced in the notes if you wish to look them up for yourself.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 10





	If Words Did Ever Fail

You would be forgiven in thinking the bookshop was unloved. Shelves caved under the weight of hundreds upon hundreds upon thousands of tomes. Generations of candle stubs melted together on every available surface. Dust motes floated in tenacious beams of sunlight that made it through the high, stained glass windows. In the centre of it all was a desk littered with papers. Notebooks towered. Unopened and yellowing letters sat on an antique silver tray. And dozing in the worn leather armchair, arms folded on the desk beneath his head, was the curator of the shop. His name was Aziraphale, and technically he was a bookseller.

A man of indeterminate age, Aziraphale gave the impression of good-natured annoyance. He kept irregular hours. When no other option presented itself and he was forced to open the shop, he was quick to get the whole sordid business over with. He guarded his collection like a dragon in a selbu-rose sweater.

And the bookshop guarded him.

The shop itself had stood long before he came to live there. It had always existed on the corner of the street, tucked away between what was now two cafes, but had once been workhouses and butchers, tanners and fletchers. Generations of families had walked past it, never once giving the store a second glance. The shop had a talent for concealment. It had sheltered its curators though wars and famines. Through depressions and flood. The bookshop was something of a mystery. 

Spend enough time in there and you could almost swear it was breathing. Books rearranged themselves depending on its moods. Take one wrong turn, and the uninitiated could be lost for hours. Days. Aziraphale had learned to read the shops ever changing layout, and adjusted his life accordingly. He and the shop had...an understanding.

A bell rang.

Aziraphale groaned. One hand slapped across the table before he found his glasses. He stood with a yawn and adjusted the gold chain on his glasses. The bell rang again, this time followed by knocking. He checked his watch and cursed under his breath.

'You couldn't have woken me up?' He grumbled to the bookshop at large, hurrying through the shelves, his slippers scuffling. The walls creaked.

The front door of the shop was crafted from ancient yew and heavily bolted. Small carved hearts and initials covered most of it, the outside plastered in the remnants of hundreds of torn down band posters. Aziraphale slid open the small view slot, peering out.

'Sorry, but we're closed,' He said by way of greeting.

A young woman yelped, taking a step back. She clutched at a handbag, frowning, 'What?'

'Our hours are clearly marked on the sign beside the door-'

'What sign?'

The door clunked open. Aziraphale shuffled out, blinking in the bright light. Beside the stoop was a tiny patch of grass, barely two square feet, with a metal rod stuck in. The bookseller squatted on the steps, frowning. His sign was covered by a shoddily photocopied band poster. 

Aziraphale sighed, picking at a corner of the poster, ‘I am sorry, miss. But the store is closed.’ 

‘I’m not here to shop,’ the woman said. ‘I’m here...um…’ She shuffled forward. ‘You know...to talk?’ 

The poster tore in half, revealing a laminated, handwritten sign. Aziraphale balled the paper in his hand,‘Ah.’ He stood, hands behind his back. ‘Do come in, then.’ 

The woman sat at his desk, handbag on her lap as Aziraphale made a pot of tea. ‘I don’t believe in all this,’ she called. ‘But my aunt gave me your address.’ 

‘I understand,’ he said softly, coming in from the kitchenette. He placed a tray with two cups and a pot of sweet smelling tea in front of her. After repositioning a stack of paper with a small smile, Aziraphale poured the tea, ‘I’m sorry, we haven’t had a visitor in a while. I really should tidy up more.’ 

‘...It’s okay,’ the woman took her cup in both hands, taking a small sip. She relaxed, sighing deeply. ‘So...how does this work?’ 

‘However you want it to,’ Aziraphale crossed his legs, smiling over the rim of his cup. The steam fogged his glasses. He set the tea aside, taking his glasses off. He cleaned them on his sweater, ‘Some people come here to, as you say, just talk. Some come for answers. I follow your lead, miss. What are you looking for?’ 

The woman bit her lip, staring into the depths of her cup, ‘...Answers, I guess. I just...don’t know what I’m doing, you know?’ 

He nodded, ‘I do. Please, finish your tea, we’ll find something for you.’ 

Aziraphale stood, taking his cup with him. He walked the shelves, taking a deep breath. Fingertips brushing along the spines of books, he closed his eyes. The shop shifted. Sounds dampened. Tingles flowed down his spine and across his shoulder blades. He stopped walking. Eyes reopened. At the end of the room a book tumbled onto the floor. 

Knees creaking, Aziraphale crouched down. He tucked the book under his arm – a thump sounded down another section. He sighed. ‘Couldn’t have picked ones close together could you?’ he chuckled, tapping a knuckle on a wall. He drank his tea, searching for the next book. He found it under a broken armchair. Aziraphale finished his drink on the way back to his guest. 

The young woman sat up when he returned, eyeing the books as he placed them in front of her. She frowned, ‘What are they?’ 

‘Poetry,’ Aziraphale took his seat again. ‘If you could please place your hands on the covers, and feel which book calls to you.’ 

She frowned, ‘Are you serious?’ 

‘Typically.’ 

‘I thought you were, like, gonna read my tea leaves or something.’ 

Aziraphale laughed, ‘I wouldn’t know where to start with all that. Though, if that is the course of action you’d like, I think I have a business card for a reader somewhere-’ 

‘No, no,’ she held up a hand. The woman looked at the books, holding her hand above them. She wavered, moving from one to the other, biting her lip. She stopped and picked up the second book, ‘Now what?’ 

‘You read,’ Aziraphale said. ‘Take your time and flip through the pages as you ask. You will get better results if you don’t ask yes or no questions. Be open. You don’t need to ask your question out loud, just concentrate,’ He smiled, picking up the other book. He folded his hands over the cover, ‘When it feels right, pick a passage and it will hold an answer.’ 

The young woman nodded. She closed her eyes, flipping back and forth through pages. When she stopped, she ran her finger down a page and opened her eyes, ‘- “The hearts thus intermixed speak, a love that no bold shock can break, for joined and growing, both in one, neither can be disturbed alone”.’ She looked up from the book and frowned, ‘Well?’ 

Aziraphale cocked his head to one side, ‘Yes?’ 

‘What does it mean?’ 

He pulled the book over to himself, a finger slid between pages as a bookmark, turning it to read, ‘Well. There’s always many ways to interpret everything.’ He turned the book over, checking the cover, ‘The author is one Katherine Philips. A poet from the mid 1600s,’ he adjusted his glasses, leaning forward in his seat. ‘And the poem is titled to her “Dearest Lucasia”. She wrote a lot of her friend, I believe her actual name was Anne Owen, and she very much pushed forward the concept of female friendship in her work. A lot of poets at the time focused on solitude, you see. Where as Phillips – she loved. Wholly and fully. If you read a few passages down,’ He cleared his throat. 

‘- “The compass that stand above, express this great immortal love, for friends like them can prove this true, they are and yet they are not two.” It’s love. A binding of hearts. Romantic, but not exactly in the way that is often championed. Friendship is a romance of it’s own. It’s work, and care, and adoration,’ Aziraphale smiled then, eyes warm. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ 

The woman blinked. She looked up from her hands, staring at him. They watched each other for a moment, and the he saw it. The light in her eyes. The spark of knowing. A rekindling. 

‘Um, no. No thank you,’ She rubbed her eye with the heel of her palm. She dug through her handbag, ‘H-how much do I owe you?’ 

‘Absolutely nothing, dear girl.’ 

She blinked, ‘Are you sure?’ 

‘Of course.’ 

‘...Thank you,’ She whispered. 

Aziraphale bolted the door behind her. As he wandered back to his desk and stretched his arms above his head with a yawn – a thump sounded in the depths of the bookshop. Aziraphale stopped. ‘She’s gone, you know that, yes?’ 

A book skittered out from the mouth of an aisle. Like a pinball it smacked the leg of a coffee table, ricocheting to land at his feet. He picked up the book with a sigh, ‘Anne Bradstreet? You’re in the mood for Puritans now?’ 

The shop shuddered. Aziraphale threw out an arm to steady himself, legs shaking. Clouds of dust floated from the rafters. Wood groaned, and crockery rattled in cupboards.

‘Okay, okay,’ he rubbed his hand over a wall. ‘Shh, I’m sorry. I’ll read, give me a moment, my dear.’ 

Like all good second hand and rare book stores, this one also had a back room. It was here that Aziraphale kept his stock overflow. Boxes, yellowed and cobwebbed, were stacked to chest height. They were so close together he had to shuffle sideways to make it through to the plinth at the very back. Pulling his sleeve over his hand he gave it a quick wipe. 

The plinth was carved from the same yew as the door. The ancient carvings and sigils worn with age. He placed the book on top, hands resting on either side. Eyes closed, he let his mind fly. The sensation was not dissimilar to a sneeze – if the sneeze never came and you simply had the sense of impending pressure backfiring through your skull. Aziraphale gripped the sides of the plinth. He felt the breeze of flipping pages on his face. 

When the world stopped spinning, he traced a finger down the page until the bookshop stopped him. It was like his finger was caught on flypaper. He opened his eyes, and read. 

“- The first a lion, second was a bear,  
The third a leopard, which four wings did rear,  
The last more strong and dreadful than the rest,  
Whose iron teeth devoured every beast,  
And when he had no appetite to eat,  
The residue he stamped under feet;  
But yet this lion, bear, this leopard, ram,  
All trembling stand before that powerful lamb -” 

‘What-’ before he could even begin to think the pages fluttered once more, drawing him in to the next passage. 

“- But ‘fore I could accomplish my desire,  
my papers fell prey to the raging fire.  
And thus my pains (with better things) I lost,  
Which none had cause to wail, nor I to boast.  
No more I’ll do since I have suffered wrack,  
Although my monarchies their legs do lack,  
Nor matter is it this last, the world now sees,  
Hath many ages been upon his knees -” 

Time stood still. Aziraphale stared at the words in front of him. The shop made no sound, no move to tell him anything else. He sucked in a sharp breath, placing a hand on a wall. He felt the pulse. The power and ache of magic that called to him. That had always called to him. And he felt the shift, heard the whisper in the wood, the ghost patter of rain against windows even though he knew the sun shone outside. The shop was in pain. 

Eyes closed, Aziraphale pressed his forehead to the plinth, ‘...We're in trouble, aren't we?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katherine Phillips: Katherine or Catherine Philips (1 January 1631/2 – 22 June 1664), also known as "The Matchless Orinda", was an Anglo-Welsh royalist poet, translator, and woman of letters. She achieved renown as a translator of Pierre Corneille's Pompée and Horace, and for her editions of poetry after her death. She was highly regarded by many writers of 17th century literature, including John Dryden and John Keats, as being influential.
> 
> The poem referenced is "Friendship in Emblem, or the Seal, to my Dearest Lucasia"
> 
> -
> 
> Anne Bradstreet: Anne Bradstreet (née Dudley; March 20, 1612 – September 16, 1672) was the most prominent of early English poets of North America and first writer in England's North American colonies to be published. She is the first Puritan figure in American Literature and notable for her large corpus of poetry, as well as personal writings published posthumously.
> 
> First passage is from her work "The Four Monarchies", specifically "The third monarchy, being the Grecian, beginning under Alexander the great in the 112 Olympiad". 
> 
> The second passage is technically from the same piece, Bradstreet wrote a quaternion poem (a poem on a theme that is divided into four parts). This passage is from "The end of the Roman monarchy, being the fourth and last: An apology".


End file.
